Oubliette
by darkbird36
Summary: From the French, 'oublier'. To forget. A trap door or secret prison.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Oubliette

Summary: Oubliette – from the French _oublier, _'To forget'

Disclaimer: Not mine yet, but if that Warlock I hired earns his pay, they will be soon! Bwaa ha ha! Okay, fine. So I can't afford a Warlock – Neither Supernatural, Dean, nor Sam are not mine… Sigh…

Warnings: Bad language (sorry, but I just can't see Dean saying "Aw, shucks…" when he's pissed. Seriously, can you?)

A/N: Yes, yes, I know I have one more chapter to do for 'Burden of Sight', but this plot bunny came to me this morning, bit me squarely in the ass, and refused to let go until I got this down. Don't worry, I'll finish BoS soon… :)

Sam woke slowly to the unmistakable scent of antiseptic and sickness, his eyes blinking open groggily. He felt heavy, blurred, and as the stark hospital room came into focus his confusion intensified. He was lying on his back in a raised bed, his face turned toward the window. Sunlight streamed in through the open curtains and he squinted, his eyes watering.

"Sammy?"

Sam's head rolled toward the familiar voice. Dean was sitting in a chair next to his bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and a weary look on his face. There was a thin layer of stubble on his cheeks and his eyes were red-rimmed.

"Dean? What happened?" he asked, taking a mental check of his body. Nothing hurt, there were no bandages, no IVs, no monitors. And yet, he couldn't remember where he had been before this moment.

Dean looked away, his face tightening for a moment.

"We were hunting a spirit in Charleston, South Carolina. It knocked you over a balcony and you sustained a… head injury." Dean answered, still not looking at him.

"Oh," he managed. "I don't remember."

Dean flinched and stared at him with a strangely mournful expression.

"Yeah, Sam, I know."

"My head doesn't hurt," Sam mused, patting at his skull experimentally. "I feel… fine."

"Well, you were out for a while." Dean replied, sitting back. He looked exhausted and oddly thin. Sam pulled himself into a sitting position and stared at his brother levelly.

"I'm awake now." He pointed out, "Where's the doctor? Can we leave?"

"No, Sammy. The doc said… one more day, for observation. But hey, your nurse is kinda cute."

Dean smiled weakly, but it lacked his usual air of cockiness and suggestion. Sam felt a small surge of anxiety, sensing something off in his brother's voice.

"Dean, is something else wrong? What's going on?" He shifted nervously in the bed.

"Everything's fine, Sammy, I've just been… worried" Dean reassured, but his voice sounded forced, and Sam didn't miss the use of his pet name twice in as many sentences.

"Really?" he pressed. "I'm okay?"

Dean's eyes shot up and he swallowed thickly before giving a strained smile and nodding.

"You're okay."

"And you? Did it hurt you, too? You're not-"

"No," Dean insisted, "I'm fine."

Sam sighed in relief and leaned back.

"Good… Did we get the spirit?"

"Yeah, I sent the fucker straight back to hell."

The raw anger in Dean's voice surprised Sam, but he didn't comment. He was probably just tired and stuck in protective-big-brother mode.

Sam's belly rumbled and he grinned.

"What does a guy have to do to get some food around here?" he asked, rubbing his stomach.

"Careful, Dude. You may end up wishing you'd gone hungry. It's Meatloaf Monday in the cafeteria."

Sam shot his brother a strange look.

"Jeez, Dean, you've memorized the menu already? Weirdo…"

Dean scrubbed his palms over the knees of his jeans and looked away.

"Yeah, well, maybe I can get you some takeout later."

Sam couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something Dean wasn't telling him. There was a minute of strained, awkward silence and the room seemed to shrink in on itself. Sam felt the sudden urge to be outside. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed he stood. Dean looked up at him questioningly.

"Can we go outside? It's really… stuffy in here." He asked, shifting from side to side. Dean nodded and joined Sam on his feet.

"Sure. There's a nice garden out back of this wing. We can go there."

He scooped up a pair of loafers from beside the bed and handed them to Sam, who grunted his thanks and slipped them on. The shoes looked unfamiliar, but molded perfectly to his feet as though he'd owned them for months. His brow furrowed with confusion for a moment, but then Dean was leading him out the door and down a long, bare hallway.

They passed several open doorways, and although he felt a little ashamed for doing so, he glanced into each one as they walked by. Two rooms held patients who appeared to be deeply unconscious, another a woman who sat rocking on her bed and drooling, a strange keening coming from her lax mouth. One man sat slumped in a chair by his window, a dark seam of stitches crossing the top of his bald skull in a long line.

"Dean, what wing of the hospital is this?" Sam asked, unnerved.

"It's where they treat patients with brain injuries."

"But, my brain's not injured."

"A concussion is still a brain injury, Sam." Dean said sharply, his fists clenching at his sides. Sam frowned.

"Sor-ry…" he mumbled, shooting a sideways look at his brother. He saw Dean take a deep breath and consciously relax his muscles.

"No, Sam, It's okay. _I'm_ sorry. I'm just – tired." He sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Let's just go outside, okay? Maybe the fresh air will wake me up."

He rested a hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed gently before leading him through the doors into the small garden.

"Wow," Sam breathed, "It's so _nice_ out! Wasn't it colder, before? I mean – I feel like it should be colder." He scratched his head, perplexed and slightly disoriented.

"Nah." Dean dismissed offhandedly. "We were having a bit of rainy weather when you got… hurt."

Sam shrugged, turning his face up and watching the slight breeze rustle the leaves of a nearby Live Oak tree. It felt good to be outdoors, and he was again surprised at how well he felt, considering the fact that he was apparently concussed and being held in a hospital.

"So now that we're done here, what's our next gig?" He asked, sitting on a nearby bench.

Dean sat next to him, watching a sparrow hop after a tiny beetle on the pathway.

"Don't really have one, yet." He said vaguely.

"Oh, well, I'm sure we'll find something soon. Or something will find us. Things always seem to work out, don't they?"

Dean didn't answer, his head bowed. Sam felt a growing concern for his brother and reached out to clasp his wrist.

"Dean, hey, snap out of it, Dude. It's alright. I'm fine."

Dean stood abruptly, pulling his arm from Sam's grasp.

"I'm gonna go see about that takeout, alright? You… sit tight. Don't go anywhere, okay?"

"Sure," Sam replied automatically, watching his brother stride purposefully back inside.

_What the hell is going on here?_

Xxxxxxxx

Dean burst through the restroom door, locking it securely behind him before sinking to his heels against the wall. He inhaled shakily and pressed his hands to his eyes. With monumental effort he calmed his breathing and slowed his heartbeat, forcing himself to relax.

Sammy needed him to stay strong. Sammy needed him.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself to his feet and unlocked the door. He made his way past the open doorways of the wing's other inhabitants, being careful not to look inside. He couldn't stand to see them, visual reminders of his own brother's… damage.

As he approached the nurse's station to call for the food, he heard the hushed voices of two women in quiet conversation and slowed automatically to listen.

"…the Poor kid. He's got the most severe form of Anterograde Amnesia I've ever heard of. Can't remember anything that's happened the last three months – just goes to sleep and wakes up a clean slate."

Dean froze, recognizing the voice of Hannah, the portly day nurse who worked weekdays.

"And poor Dean, here every day… By tomorrow his brother won't even remember he was here at all, but he keeps on coming in, pretending, to keep Sam calm…"

The second nurse tsked sadly.

"Might've been better for them both if he hadn't survived the fall at all…"

Dean trembled with rage and forced himself to breath before rounding the corner. Both nurses jumped guiltily as he slammed a palm down on the counter.

"It might be better for _you_ two gossipy whores to shut the hell up about things you know _nothing_ about." He ground out.

Hannah gasped and the younger nurse's mouth fell open in shock. Dean narrowed his eyes at them and they shrank back from him slightly.

"Now," he said calmly, straightening and removing his hand from the counter. "I need to use the phone to order some food for my brother."

"Of-of course…" Hannah stuttered, gesturing at the handset. Dean turned his attention from them and snatched up the phone. He dialed the pizzeria's number by heart, having ordered from them often enough in the past three months to be on a first name basis with the staff. He ordered a large cheese and some sodas to be delivered, then slapped some money on the counter.

"Tell them to keep the change, and bring the pizza outside when it arrives - if you can find the time, that is, in between deciding who should live and who should die."

The younger nurse nodded hastily, looking like she would cry, and Dean almost felt bad for her.

But as heart wrenching as it was to watch Sam forget, over and over again, he was still his _brother_, and it was better than losing him altogether. How could they understand? How could they know, that their father had ignored Dean's frantic, broken voicemails - that Dean had _no one_ left but Sam, broken as he was.

He kept his head down as he walked back down the hall, trying to compose himself. He paused as he stepped outside again, watching his brother blink lazily in the late morning sun. Sam turned as he heard the door click behind Dean, his eyes wide, trusting, and clueless.

Just as they'd been, every day now, for three months.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A/N: Anterograde amnesia is real, just not to the degree mentioned in this story. Usually patients lose the ability to store memory of events after a head injury for a only a short period of time. I've distorted reality for the sake of the plot (and that's why I write fiction instead of research papers. :) As I'm sure many of you will realize, the inspiration for this story is very loosely inspired by the movie "50 First Dates". But don't worry, the similarities stop after the amnesia. :) And no, Drew Barrymore will not be appearing in this story.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: I promised myself that I'd complete my other story before I posted on this one again, but I'm a filthy, filthy liar, apparently. Oh, well. :)

* * *

Dean fumbled with the key to his apartment, trying to balance a stack of library books and his dinner while opening the door. He felt beaten down, as he always did after leaving Sam for the day. He'd used the usual excuse, _visiting hours, angry nurses, blah blah blah_, the familiar words stale in his mouth. It had taken all of his willpower to keep from screaming when Sam waved goodbye, settling down in his bed and saying "See you tomorrow, Dean." He said it every night, and every time it made Dean's heart clench with grief.

Kicking the door shut behind him, he dropped the stack of medical reference books on the table and kicked off his shoes. He'd rented this shithole of an apartment two weeks after the doctors told him Sam would need to stay in the hospital long-term. It was too expensive to keep paying for hotel rooms, and he needed a home base to work from. Still, he had opted for a month-by-month lease, unwilling to give up the hope that soon this would be _fixed_ and they could move on.

It wasn't that Dean was stupid. He knew it was most likely hopeless, that his brother would live out the rest of his life without forminga single new memory. But the part of him that swore to protect Sam at any cost, the biggest part of him, didn't care about odds or rationality.

He'd read more medical journals and reference books in the last three months than a friggin' med student, searching desperately for a solution. Somehow the more he read on traumatic brain injuries, the more helpless and afraid he felt. He knew that Sam's temporal lobe was damaged on the right side, and that that area of the brain dealt primarily with memory. The blow to his head had caused his temporal lobe to fire wildly, without purpose, and his brain's ability to store new memories had been disrupted.

But the doctors couldn't tell him _why_ this was happening, or what they could do to fix it. They'd fed him line after line about the brain's many delicate mysteries and unknowns, but it all added up to _we don't know, and we can't fix it._ The longer this went on, Dean knew, the less of a chance Sam had of ever recovering. The hospital staff had already given up. He could see it in their eyes when they looked at him – the pity, the dismissal of his brother as little more than a vegetable.

And John… Dean didn't know what the hell to even think about their Dad. He'd left him message after message –

_Dad, it's me, Dean… Sammy's hurt. It, uh, it's bad. Please call me._

_Dad, where are you? They say his brain is bleeding, and he's not waking up…_

_Sam has brain damage, Dad. He… he doesn't remember anything after the accident. He can't form any new memories. I don't know what to do. Please, Dad, call us._

But there was no response, and Dean had begun to believe that their father was dead - until John sent him a set of coordinates last week. There was no accompanying text, but the message was clear. _Keep hunting._ Dean had smashed the cell phone, his vision literally turning red with rage. Then he'd purposefully, deliberately severed his attachment to his father, cutting him out of his heart.

He couldn't leave Sammy alone and helpless to wake up, _every day_ for the rest of his life, wondering where his big brother was and what was happening to him. That his Dad could even _think_ of asking him to do that… He had no place in their lives now. It was just him and Sam. _What was left of Sam, _his mind supplied bitterly.

And that was just the thing – there was so much of Sam _left._ He was _normal_, except for the amnesia. Dean could almost pretend that it really _was_ just a concussion – that Sam would be walking out of there with him the next morning. When they visited, Sam teased him about his music, brought up childhood jokes and memories, picked up on his moods and emotions with the same uncanny perception he'd always had. Which was what made it so damn hard to keep the truth from him. But the alternative was worse.

Dean grimaced, remembering the week after Sam woke from his coma. Dean had been tired and had slipped up – Sam had been persistent, eventually prying the truth from his big brother. He would never forget the look of terror and grief in Sam's eyes. He'd panicked himself into hyperventilating and the doctor had ordered him sedating, fearing that the stress might exacerbate his injury. Sam had begged as they put him under, pleading for them not to put him to sleep, that he didn't want to forget, he wasn't ready. Dean had felt like they were killing him – the knowledge that his brother would never remember the betrayal, the fear, or anything about the event was not comforting in the least.

Grabbing a plastic fork from the open bag on the kitchen counter he ate straight from the Chinese takeout boxes. As he chewed his way through the Kung Poa chicken he selected a book from the pile and began to read, searching for even the slightest hope that Sam would find a way out of this, that they could have their lives back.

* * *

The next morning, Sam took a turn for the worse. They were in the garden, where they ended up every day, sitting on their bench and eating burgers. Dean had been dodging Sam's questions all morning, and lack of sleep and stress were making him irritable. Sam seemed to pick up on that fact that he was walking a thin line because he sighed and changed the subject.

"Hey, they don't have anything good to read around here. Do you think you could pick me up a…" his voice trailed off and he frowned, gesturing vaguely with his hand.

"You know, a.." his mouth opened and closed a few times and he growled in frustration.

"Sam?"

"I can't.. can't think of the word. I know what it is, I know what I wanna ask for, but I- I don't know how to say it. Damn it!" He pounded his leg with his fist.

"What the hell's wrong with me, Dean? I need you to tell me."

"I- I don't know, Sammy. I'm gonna go get a doctor, okay? Hold on."

He'd resisted the urge to run until he got indoors, unwilling to scare Sam, but once he was out of sight he sprinted, and he shouted, until a doctor appeared and followed him back to Sam's side. No more than a minute had passed, but by the time they returned, Sam was listing to the left, is eyes unfocused.

The doctor had called for a gurney and they'd whisked Sam off to do a CT scan. Dean had caught the worried tone to the doctor's voice and had felt his heart sink. He'd spent the last hour vomiting intermittently in the men's room, certain that soon someone would come and tell him his brother was dead.

"Mr. Winchester?" came a hesitant voice from the bathroom door. It was Hannah, who'd been painfully awkward around Dean since he'd called her a gosspy whore.

"Dr. Mitchell is ready to speak with you."

Dean gulped and swiped a hand over his lips before standing unsteadily and stumbling into the hall. Hannah stepped aside, wringing her hands and looking nervous. A tall black man in a white coat stood waiting, Sam's distressingly thick chart in his hands.

"Mr. Winchester? I'm Doctor Mitchell. I need to speak to you about your brother, Sam."

"What's wrong with him? I mean, what else?" Dean rasped, his throat raw.

"Why don't we go to my office, where it's quiet."

"Just tell me," he ground out, dangerously close to punching someone simply to relieve the tension.

"I'm afraid that Sam has developed a condition called hydrocephalus. It's a build up of cerebrospinal fluid on the brain, resulting in increased cranial pressure. It's not uncommon in cases of traumatic brain injury."

"Is that what caused the…" Dean gestured with his hand, ironically uncertain of the proper term.

"The aphasia, yes. Pressure on the brain can sometimes lead to an inability to comprehend or recall language properly."

"Wait," Dean said incredulously. "Are you telling me that not only does my brother have to relive the same day, over and over again, but now he won't _understand_ me? He won't be able to _talk_?"

"We may be able to reverse this, Mr. Winchester. With your permission, I'd like to put a shunt in your brother's skull to drain the excess fluid and relieve the pressure. If we do it quickly enough we may spare him further brain damage."

A bitter, hysterical laugh barked from Dean's chest and he scrubbed his hands over his face, perilously close to losing it.

"And if you don't? Relive the pressure, I mean. What happens to him?"

"He'll most likely continue to worsen and develop further complications – seizures, worsening aphasia, blindness, eventually a persistent vegetative state, then most likely brain death."

"Oh, god." Dean gasped, sorry he'd asked. "Help him, put in the shunt, just, don't let him go through that, please."

"Okay," Dr. Mitchell said gently, offering him several sheets of paper. "Just sign these consents and we'll get him in to surgery as soon as possible."

Dean scrawled his signature hastily.

"Can I see him? Before you…"

"Of course, but it'll have to be quickly. Nurse Franco, would you please show Mr. Winchester to pre-op room six?"

Hannah nodded somberly, glanced at Dean, and led him further down the hall. Dean trailed numbly after her, his mind overloaded with conflicting doubts and fear.

"Right in there, Mr. Winchester." Hannah said faintly.

Dean took a deep breath and composed himself before stepping into the dimly lit room. Sam lay on his side on a surgical gurney, his right arm extended and restrained, an IV in the crook of his elbow. He was blinking dazedly at the wall as an anesthesiologist adjusted an oxygen pump and a petite blonde nurse shaved the back of his head.

"Sam…" He whispered, and his brother's eyes rolled towards him.

"Dean. Head hurts…" He sounded drugged, too dampened by sedatives to be frightened, and Dean was grateful for that small mercy. He stepped forward and rested his hand on Sam's forearm, brushing it lightly with his thumb.

"Hey, kiddo. I know. They're gonna do an operation, fix that right up for you, okay? And as a bonus, you get an edgy new hairdo from Nurse Heinz, here."

Sam furrowed his brow at Dean, confused.

"It's gonna be okay, Sam." Dean promised, brushing his fingers lightly over his brother's forhead, smoothing the lines.

"Mr. Winchester, we're going to put your brother under now." The anesthesiologist said softly, injecting something into Sam's IV and placing a mask over his face. "I'm sorry, but you need to leave so we can move him into surgery."

"Dean…" Sam exhaled, his free arm fumbling weakly for his brother.

"It's alright," He grabbed Sam's hand and squeezed, letting go reluctantly as they moved the gurney into the hall.

"Don't worry, Sam. I'll be there when you wake up."

_I always am…_

* * *

A/N: More soon, but this time I really DO have to complete BoS before I continue on this story. Thanks to everyone for the prompt and kind reviews, it was inspiration to get this out quicker. :) 


	3. Chapter 3

_

* * *

"Where the hell is this thing?" Sam mumbled, annoyed. "We've been here two hours and no sign of it."_

_"The EMF meter says something's here," Dean insisted. "And the people we talked to in town described classic poltergeist activity centered around this house."_

_"Yeah, well, maybe the meter's wrong. I mean, how accurate can a homemade EMF meter be, anyway?"_

_"Hey! I happen to be quite skilled with electronics." Dean protested indignantly._

_"Oh," Sam scoffed, looking incredulous. "Have you forgotten that remote control car you 'fixed' for me when I was ten?"_

_"Hey, that thing was screwed to begin with." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Who knew plastic could burn that hot and that quickly."_

_"Yeah," Sam agreed, smiling. "Let's hope the safety standard of toys has improved since the 1990's."_

_"At any rate, the meter's fine. It hasn't led us wrong yet."_

_"Dean, that thing once told you that my cheeseburger was possessed."_

_"Could've been mad cow disease." Dean insisted._

_"So that's why you bitch-slapped it out of my hands? To save me from brain-eating bacteria?"_

_"More or less."_

_"You've got to be ki-"_

_The sharp whine of the EMF meter interrupted Sam, and both brothers immediately snapped to attention._

_"Dean," Sam said softly, and he turned to look in Sam's direction. A crackling snarl of blue energy snapped and flared in the shadows at the top of the stairs. Dean moved swiftly up the steps, Sam in step behind him. Both trained their guns on the spirit, ready to fire if it advanced._

_The stairs creaked loudly under their feet – the house, once luxurious and finely constructed, was now old and run down. The staircase was wide and gently curving, leading to a wide, open balcony that overlooked the foyer. The spirit hovered on the far side.._

_As Dean stepped onto the landing a sudden surge of energy from the poltergeist hurled the remains of a lamp at the brothers. Dean rolled forward, bringing up his gun even as he rolled. Sam dove low, sliding a few feet on his belly in the opposite direction. His shotgun skittered out of his hand and came to rest against the balcony railing._

_"Sam, stay down!" Dean shouted, and fired two rock salt rounds into the mass of energy. An ear-splitting wail filled the house and the random, snarled threads of light rearranged themselves into the image of a face, screaming in rage._

_"Sam, try the holy water rounds!" Dean yelled, fumbling to reload. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sam scrambling after his gun. The wail turned into a roar and Dean was struck by a sudden, painful force from behind. A heavy weight pinned him to the floor and he wheezed as dust puffed up around his face. _

_"Dean!" he heard Sam yell. He pushed up mightily with his arms, levering himself up until the massive object on his back shifted off of him. It was an old wooden desk, oak, he observed detachedly. His head swam and the room spun as he tried to scramble to his feet. He collapsed back to his knees, blinking to bring his brother into focus._

_Sam was raising the shotgun to fire, looking grim and determined. He was focused on the spirit, so Dean saw the end table hurtling toward his little brother a moment before Sam did._

_Dean opened his mouth to yell, to warn him, but he hadn't even drawn the breath to scream when his vision blackened at the edges and he began to tilt forward. The last thing he saw was the table hitting Sam, his brother's body breaking through the neglected banister. Sam's terrified eyes locked onto his for a moment, before he fell away from sight and Dean fell away from the world._

_Dean blinke. Time seemed to blur, and then he was kneeling next to his brother's still body, waiting for the ambulance. His hands were pressed gently to Sam's skull, trying to staunch the flow of blood. An unbearable amount had already pooled under Sam's head and his lips looked pale and blue-tinged._

_"Sammy…" he choked out, his fingers trembling in Sam's blood-tacky hair. Sam remained unmoving. Dean gently lifted his eyelids with his thumbs, immediately wishing he hadn't as he saw his brother's blank, fixed stare._

_"Oh, god, Sam…" he brushed his thumbs over Sam's cheeks, leaving damp red smears._

_"It's okay, Dean." A small, soft voice said behind him. Dean whirled, and the room around him blurred into a familiar looking hotel room. A ten year-old Sam perched on the edge of one of the beds, swinging his legs back and forth and smiling._

_"Sammy?"_

_"Are you gonna play?" Little Sam asked, hopping off the bed and tilting his little round face up at Dean. "Come on!"_

_Sam dashed out the open hotel room door into the night, shouted over his shoulder._

_"Let's play hide and seek!"_

_"Sam, wait!" Dean cried, running after him. But as soon as he crossed the threshold of the room an unending darkness engulfed him and he stumbled, unsure of his direction._

_"Find me, Dean! Come find me!" Sammy's laughing voice rang clearly through the blackness._

_"Sam!" Dean begged, "Where are you?"_

* * *

Dean shot upright in the chair, his desperate cry still echoing in the empty waiting room. He was drenched in sweat, shaking and panting as though he'd been running. He dropped his head into his hands and took an unsteady breath, grateful that no one else was in the room..

He'd dreamt about the accident every night, always with some strange twist or vision of Sam as a child. It felt strangely symmetrical, that Sam relived his day over and over again, and Dean relived that night. They played out the before and after, each stuck on their respective side of the impossible divide caused by Sam's injury.

Sighing in exhaustion, he glanced at the clock. Sam had been in surgery for four hours, now, and no word from the doctor. Dean couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. Trying to blink the sleep from his eyes, he retrieved the open medical journal that had fallen from his lap and found his place, determined to finish the article.

His brain ached with trying to interpret the thick medical jargon, but if there was even a remote chance that something in it could help Sam, he'd translate it from Klingon.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Dean stood quickly, the journal forgotten as Dr. Mitchell entered.

"How is he? Is he still-"

"He's alive." The doctor reassured. "He came through the surgery without any complications, and we were able to regulate the pressure in his skull. I'm hopeful that we were able to reverse it in time to prevent any more permanent damage to Sam's brain."

Dean sagged in relief, feeling momentarily faint.

"Can I see him?"

"He's still sedated, but you can sit with him for a few minutes if you like."

Dean nodded numbly and followed Dr. Mitchell down the hall to the post-op recovery room.

Sam was laying on his side, his head swathed in bandages and a capped line of tubing running from the thick gauze at the back of his skull. Dean approached him slowly. The memory of his brother sprawled out and bleeding was still fresh, superimposed over Sam's form in the bed.

"Is there any chance that relieving the pressure could have fixed the amnesia?" Dean asked, his hand hovering just over Sam's head, afraid to touch.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Mitchell said sympathetically. "But I very much doubt that's the case. This was almost certainly a complication brought on by that injury, but unfortunately fixing the complication doesn't repair the root cause."

"Is there even a slight chance?" Dean persisted.

"There's always uncertainty when dealing with the brain, Mr. Winchester. We can never say for sure that we know what it will do. But you need to understand, the chances of Sam making a full recovery are astronomically low."

"You don't know him." Dean said softly, settling on resting his hand on Sam's shoulder. "You don't know him at all."

Dr. Mitchell patted him on the back wordlessly and made a discrete exit, murmuring instructions to the nurses.

"I'm gonna find you, Sam." He whispered. "You always did suck at hide and seek."

* * *

A/N: Okay, I just stayed up til 3 am writing this chapter, so I really hope people enjoy it. My ass is gonna be draggin' tomorrow at work for sure… :) 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

Dean rolled his head on his neck as he walked, trying to loosen the muscles there. The door to the house loomed on the porch like a gaping mouth, and a sick dread filled him and he stopped at the threshold. He didn't want to go inside. He didn't want to see Sam's blood staining the floor.

But it was necessary. He had told Sam he'd banished the poltergeist, but the truth was, he wasn't entirely sure. He had woken up on the floor, mouth full of panic and dust, and from that moment on, nothing had mattered but keeping his brother alive. When Sam had stabilized, Dean had returned to finish the job. Only, the EMF meter was silent, and there was no sign of any supernatural activity. He'd swept the whole house to be sure, even put cleansing satchels in the four walls of the building just to be sure.

But nagging doubt had plagued him since, an unshakable suspicion that he'd missed something. So he had come back to do a follow-up sweep, secretly hoping that the fucker was still around so he could destroy it. All he had to do was step inside.

Taking a deep breath Dean crossed the threshold, his eyes darting immediately to the ragged gap in the balcony railing, then the large, dark stain under it. Bile rose in the back of his throat and he gulped, looking away again. He pulled out the EMF meter and switched it on. There was nothing, no reading at all.

Purposefully not looking at the railing, Dean climbed the stairs and swept the upstairs, to the same end. There wasn't so much as static electricity in this house anymore. Dean sighed and pocketed the meter distractedly. It was almost visiting hours – he needed to get to the hospital incase Sam woke up. There obviously wasn't anything here for him to deal with. He stood in the doorway for a moment, contemplating burning the place down, just to erase that bloodstain, but it was too risky. If he were caught… Sam would be alone.

And that was not an option.

* * *

Sam was still unconscious when Dean arrived to sit with him, but a kind looking nurse had explained that that was to be expected.

"Don't worry, the surgery went well." she called after him as he headed to Sam's room. As if his brother weren't lying in a coma, brain damaged, with a fucking _tube _in his skull. What kind of screwed up kind of logic did these people live by, to assume that he would be _comforted_ by any of this?

He opened the door to Sam's room carefully, as though his brother were only sleeping and in danger of being woken. He looked the same as he had last night, and Dean was pretty sure he hadn't moved at all. It was unnerving, and he had to shake himself before taking a seat next to Sam's head.

As he settled in the chair, a high-pitched whine pierced the silence of the room. Dean's heart seized in fear and he stared frantically at the many nearby monitors, searching for the source of the alarm. His brow furrowed in confusion – they all showed stable activity. It took him a moment more to realize that it was coming from his pocket. The EMF meter he had forgotten to turn off at the house was picking something up in this room. He pulled it out, lowering the volume and staring at the illuminated row of lights.

Holding his breath, he moved it closer to Sam's still face. The pitch increased, and Dean almost dropped the meter as his hands went numb with shock.

There was something going on here, something supernatural, and suddenly Dean was fighting on a battlefield he was familiar with. Maybe…. Maybe he could _fix_ this. The blood rushed away from his head and he gasped as lightheadedness assaulted him. His head dropped between his knees and he shook as he struggled to orient himself.

When the grey receded from the edges of his vision he stood and leaned over his brother.

"What's going on it there, Sam?" he asked softly, "I need you to help me out, here, little brother."

Sam didn't stir.

"Okay, fine. Once again, I get stuck with all the work. When we fix this, though, you are _so_ gonna make up for it." He patted Sam's chest, letting his hand rest there for a moment before forcing himself to turn and leave the room.

He needed to do some research. And for the first time in three months, there would be no medical books involved.

* * *

"Goddamn it!" Dean shouted, hurling his father's journal at the wall of his apartment in frustration. The room was strewn with books and sheaves of paper, frantic notes scrawled on envelopes and scraps, none of them leading him to a solution to Sam's problem. He'd spent all day searching, the hope he'd felt earlier waning with each dead end.

He fisted his hands in his short hair and kicked at a thick, leather-bound book on the floor. The physical outburst felt good – he hadn't hunted anything since Sam had been hurt, hadn't been able to pummel out his feelings.

He kicked at the book again, then gave a choked cry and swept everything off of the table. He grabbed at fistfuls of paper and tore at them, panting and fighting back tears.

_It's not fair, it's not fair,_ he thought brokenly, grabbing and empty beer bottle and hurling it against the wall. The glass burst against the wood with a satisfying smash, and Dean continued to lash out at anything within reach.

When his hands landed on Sam's laptop, he flung it without thinking and it bounced off the ratty couch to land with a _crack_ on the floor. The sound broke through his blind fury and remorse filled him immediately.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," he gasped, dropping to his knees and scooping up the laptop gently. "Sammy, I'm so sorry." His voice broke, and he cradled the computer to his chest. He looked around the apartment, taking in the destruction, the broken glass, the chaos. It seemed appropriate, a mirror image of their lives in general. Everything empty, pointless. Hopeless.

Dean wiped at his eyes, refusing to acknowledge that he had been crying, and stood. He set the laptop carefully on the now-bare table, running his fingers fondly over the dinged case. His heart numb, he began gathering papers and books into piles.

Tonight, he'd sleep, and tomorrow, he'd try again.

Because really, there was no other option.

* * *

A/N: This one's a bit shorter, but it was all I had time for before work. :) 


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I promise a bit of an explaination in this chapter. :) I want to thank you all for the kind reviews. I would love to answer them all personally, but between school and work, I'm a busy girl! So please accept my generalized but incredibly sincere thanks. ;)

* * *

Sam was dreaming, lost in a hazy ether within himself.

_He made his way up a wide, spiral staircase that wound endlessly into darkness. Around and around, up an up, he pushed desperately to make it to the top, his strength failing._

_He couldn't remember what he was moving towards, or why, but desperation filled him with a raw drive to climb, and he could not stop._

_"Sammy…" his name drifted down to him on Dean's distant voice. He peered intently into the dark before him, hurrying his pace._

_"Dean!" he shouted, "Help me!"_

_His foot stepped into empty space as the stairs suddenly ended, and with a cry of denial, he fell into emptiness._

Sam opened his eyes blearily, blinking slowly to try to clear his vision. He felt a strange, lingering sense of loss, but couldn't understand why. A blank hospital wall stretched before him, a row of gently humming monitors in his peripheral vision. His head felt large and constricted, the back of his skull aching dully. He lifted a weak hand towards his forehead.

"Sammy?"

Dean's voice sounded behind him, and a moment later his brother moved into his line of vision.

"Dean?" he rasped, his fingers brushing against the row of thick bandages around his head. "Wh-what happened?"

"You took a fall, Sam. You have a head injury."

"Thas' why my head hurts?" he mumbled, eyes closing as his hand drifting towards the back of his skull. He felt a gentle touch restrain his wrist.

"Don't touch," Dean said, pulling his hand down. "They had to operate, and you have a shunt in the back of your head for a while, so you need to leave it alone, okay? "

Hot nausea surged in his belly and he opened his eyes, needing to see his brother.

"A… shunt? How-how bad is this, Dean?"

"It was pretty serious, but the doc fixed you up, and you're going to be fine. Try to stay calm, okay? It's important."

"Okay," he said weakly, fisting his hands in the sheets. _I had brain surgery?_

"I think I was dreaming," he said, trying to remember. "Stairs?"

Dean leaned forward, his face intense.

"What else do you remember?" he demanded, his eyes boring into Sam's.

"I-" he struggled to recall, but his mind felt like an empty room.

"Sam?"

"Nothing!" he gasped, shaken. "I can't remember… can't…."

"Hey," Dean squeezed his shoulder, his face softening, "It's okay. You just had brain surgery, Dude. Don't sweat it if you feel a little hazy."

Sam forced himself to breathe normally, his muscles relaxing as he sank back into the mattress. His strength was fading quickly, and he felt his eyes sliding shut. He flailed out a hand for Dean, sighing in relief when he felt a warm, calloused hand wrap around his.

Then sleep called to him, and he faded away again.

* * *

Dean held his brother's hand for a while after he drifted off again, rubbing gentle circles with his thumb.

He'd spent all night tossing and turning, and he'd come to the conclusion that the spirit was hiding in Sam's brain. More specifically, the temporal lobe. He knew he'd weakened it with the rounds he'd fired – it must have sensed that Dean would destroy it and sought refuge. Dean sometimes felt that Sam was like a beacon for supernatural things – this time was apparently no different, and now Sparky was wreaking havoc with the delicate pathways of Sam's brain.

He let go of his brother's hand reluctantly and stood, tucking the blankets up over Sam's shoulders before leaving the room.

At the nurses' station he was pleased to find the young nurse he had busted a few days ago. She would be easy to intimidate, seeing as how she was already afraid of him. He motioned her over, away from an unfamiliar RN was sat shuffling paperwork.

"I need to use a computer." He said softly, his tone blunt.

"Uh, well, we're not supposed to let people use the system. Confidentiality and all…" She glanced at her co-worker, fiddling nervously with her stethoscope.

"Are you kidding me?" he raised his eyebrows. "You're suddenly concerned about _confidentiality_? I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to gossip about patients within earshot of their family, but that didn't seem to stop _you_."

"Oh," she gasped, sounding close to tears. Dean noted that her nametag said 'Kristy'. And dear God, she'd pasted a tiny, sparkly heart sticker on the dot over the 'I'.

He felt a pang of remorse. Three months ago, he would have charmed her into cooperation, rather than bullying her into submission. But he had no charm left, and everyone in this fucking place reminded him that his brother was broken and dependant. It didn't leave a guy feeling very charismatic.

"I could always talk to Dr. Mitchell or your supervisor." He threatened vaguely. Her cheeks flushed and she narrowed her eyes in a wounded glare.

"You're using the internet only." She said.

"Fine."

She glanced over her shoulder at the other nurse as she moved into the hallway.

"Rita, I'll be right back. Mr. Winchester needs me to show him to the A Wing."

Rita waved her understanding, and Kristy stalked angrily ahead of him down the hall.

"This is blackmail, you know." She hissed angrily, gesturing him into an empty office.

"Yeah, well, I'm an asshole, sweetheart. What can I say – I'm not feeling all that upbeat, these days."

She grimaced at his use of 'sweetheart', but her expression lost it's petulant edge. She closed the door behind them, locking it, and gestured to the PC on the desk.

"You should be able to use the internet browser without having to log in. And don't even _think _of trying to sneak into any files." She warned.

Dean grunted noncommittally and opened up a search engine in the browser.

Sam had done the research for the last gig, but had been unable to find anything to explain the presence of an angry spirit. All of the former inhabitants of teh house had moved, or died peacefully somewhere else. It wasn't built on cursed ground, either. Without any leads, they'd had no name and no bones to burn.

It had seemed like a minor poltergeist, not particularly violent, and they'd opted to use Missouri's banishment technique rather than waste more time in research.

A decision that Dean would regret for the rest of his life.

Dean typed in the street address of the house and hit 'search'. Several results popped up. A few outdated real estate listings, a public zoning record, nothing helpful. He sighed, frustrated, and thought hard. The disruptive events in the house had started in 1974. He did a search for that year, including the zip code of the neighborhood.

A few refined searches later, he had the area's death records for 1974 in front of him. Dismissing the entries for theelderlyand infants, Dean grabbed a piece of paper from the printer and scrawled down the names of several people.

"How much longer do you need to be?" Kristy asked impatiently. "Rita's going to expect me back soon, and if you think _I'm_ gossipy… She'll tell the whole hospital that I took you to A wing and let you have your way with me."

Dean glanced up, raising his eyebrows.

"She reads a lot of romance novels…" Kristy blushed and glared.

"I'll find my own way back." He said evenly. As he spoke heopened a new window and did a search for the first name.

"I can't leave you here alone! I could lose my job for that!"

"Well, you need to go save your reputation, and I'm not leaving until I'm done. Unless you plan on having security drag me out, I'm staying."

Kristy huffed indignantly.

"If anyone catches you, you found the door open, understand? I will _not_ lose my job because you _blackmailed_ me. And I'm sorry about what I said, I really am, but I'm not a bad person, and I don't deserve to be treated this way. After this we are EVEN. Got it?"

Dean nodded, wanting to apologize but unable to find the words. She stormed out, closing the door behind her, and he went back to searching.

Twelve unsuccessful obituaries later, he found the answer.

Daniel Hauser, 35, an electrician, had died while rewiring a house in the neighborhood. He had been electrocuted when he slipped and accidentally crossed two live wires, his body undiscoveredfor a week before the house'sownersreturned from vacation.He was survived by his wife and two sons.

Dean read the information eagerly, remembering the electrical look of the poltergeist. This had to be it. This had to be the answer. The brain communicated with electrical currents - if this thing had electrical qualities and was camping out on Sam's temporal lobe, it would explain the strange, wild activity in his EEG. It would explain the amnesia.

He scrolled to the bottom of the obituary, noting the address of the graveside service.

He had a name. Someone to blame for all of this. Anger welled up in him, involuntary and terrifying.

Tonight, the fucker was gonna burn.

* * *

A/N: Stay tuned. Tomorrow's my double, so I may not post until Sunday, but I'm working on it, I swear:) 


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: So, once again, I decided to stay up and post a short chapter. Next one will be longer, I promise, but I'm about to fall asleep on my keyboard. :)

* * *

Dean panted for air, wiping his sweaty brow with a dirty forearm. He was halfway through digging up Daniel Hauser's bones, and already exhausted. It was a painful reminder of how things had changed. Three months of medical research, hospital visits, and lousy part-time jobs had softened him. He'd lost weight, lost the motivation to train. He couldn't practice without a partner, and there was no one beside Sam that he would trust that much.

God, but he missed his brother. He hadn't known he could hurt so much while Sammy was still alive. This never-ending loop of empty days was like having Sam trapped behind a plexiglass wall, within sight but out of reach. Losing his brother like this had been agony enough – but he had gone from a life of momentum and purpose to a life of stagnation and isolation in an instant, and it was taking its toll on him. Dean Winchester was not built to stay still. Once, he had _moved_, all the time, one thing flowing into the next, always going forward. Now he was inert, and it tore at him with every breath.

If he couldn't fix this, if he couldn't make it right, he would be damned to live out this hell for the rest of his life. Because Dean could never leave. He could _never say goodbye_ – every day that he wasn't there was a day Sam spent in fear and confusion. The cost of his freedom, even if he had _wanted_ it, would have been an endless, repeating betrayal to his brother, the pain of it fresh with every day.

Bitterness surged upward through him in a wave. He began to dig again, determined to end this _tonight_. His shoulders ached as he tossed shovelful after shovelful out of the deepening grave, and just as he felt his strength start to fade, the shovel _clunk_ed off something solid.

Tossing the shovel out of the hole, he scooted back and brushed the remaining dirt from the coffin lid with his hands. Hooking his fingers under the rim, he tugged sharply upward and the lid groaned open. A puff of stale air hit him in the face and he grimaced. Hauser's bare skull grinned up at him from the coffin.

"Shithead," Dean muttered, staring into the empty sockets. Grimfaced, he hauled himself out of the open grave and stood. He had come prepared, and the bones were salted and doused in gasoline before he'd even caught his breath.

He paused for a moment, matches clutched in his trembling hand. _Please,_ he begged silently, _let this work…_

He struck a match, then lit the whole book in a hiss of sulfur and smoke.

"See ya in hell, Daniel." He bit out, then tossed the burning matchbook into the coffin. The gas ignited in a _whoosh_, and Dean stepped back hastily, his face stinging a little. Apparently he'd been more… generous with the fuel than usual.

"Damn," he cursed, squinting at the blazing flames. Hauser's remains were charcoal briquettes – it was time for him to make a hasty escape before someone caught him. He'd head to the apartment, shower the smell of gas and smoke out of his hair, and go see Sam. Screw visiting hours – he needed to know if it had worked - _now._

* * *

A shrill whine woke Sam from a muddled sleep, close to his aching head and annoyingly loud. His eyes opened reluctantly, and it took a moment to piece together what he was seeing.

He was in a hospital room, Dean sitting in a chair by his bed. His brother wore the most crestfallen look Sam thought he'd ever seen, and a sympathetic pang of grief bloomed in his chest.

"Dean?" he rasped, staring at the squealing EMF meter in his brother's hand. It took him a distressing length of time to remember what that meant, but when he did a sick panic replaced the sadness he'd felt a moment before.

He gasped and tried to sit up, his mind flailing out desperately for the memory of what the hell had_ happened _to him. Pain raced from the back of his head to explode behind his eyes, and he whimpered pitifully. The whine cut off distantly and he felt agitated hands on his shoulders.

"Sammy? Come on, it's ok." Dean's voice sounded wounded and guilty, and Sam's terror notched up another level. None of it made sense. Dean wasn't supposed to sound like that, and he was setting off the EMF. He scanned his consciousness for another presence - there was nothing but his own fragmented thoughts, racing disjointedly.

"Sam!" Dean called, and the unguarded pain in his voice was enough to snap Sam from his slide into hysteria. He opened his eyes to see Dean's face, his eyes gleaming wetly in the dim light.

"I'm sorry, Sam," he said hoarsely, and Sam was alarmed to see tears spill down his brother's cheeks. "I'm so fucking sorry…"

Sam gaped at him for a moment, then raised a tentative hand and rested it lightly on the back of Dean's neck. At the touch, his brother seemed to deflate - his head bowing forward and sinking until his forehead came to rest on Sam's chest.

Sam felt him shudder, a silent sob gusting hotly through the thin fabric of the hospital gown. Alarmed, he slid his hand to Dean's shoulder, wrapping his arm around his hunched back in a weak embrace.

Dean's shoulders hitched with another soundless cry and his hand came up blindly to clench in the fabric of Sam's gown. His fingers shivered with the force of his grip, the fabric pulling against Sam's ribs.

"Dean?" he pleaded softly, but his brother just shook his head against Sam's sternum, refusing to make any sound.

His own panic and pain forgotten, Sam held on, echoing his brother's silence.

* * *

Dean had thought his heart would split open with the pain of his failure as the EMF shrilled to life. And then Sammy had woken up, had seen the EMF and put it together. He'd panicked, confused and frightened, and Dean had felt like the worst brother to have ever disgraced the role.

He'd managed a broken apology to Sam, unsure if he was apologizing for waking him, for failing him, or for losing his composure.

He'd beenmortified to feel tears forming, and despite his silent recriminations to _get it together, _Sam's hand on his neck had broken him. He'd lowered his head to Sam's chest without meaning to, grief seizing his throat, and sobbed. Still fighting against the terrifying loss of composure, he allowed no sound to escape as he felt his brother's arm slide around his shoulders. He grasped at the hospital gown under his cheek, Sam's ribs rising gently in chorus with the gentle _thump, thump, thump_ of his heart.

Dean breathed in deeply, wishing he could breathe Sam in like air, carry him with him forever, safe inside his heart. Never alone.

But he had failed, and now his brother, his family, was lost forever.

* * *

A/N: Bwaa ha ha! Sorry for the metaphorical sucker punch, getting your hopes up and then bashing them over the head with angst… But don't worry, it's not over yet… 


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: Wow, if I had a nickel for everyone who called me 'evil' after that last chapter, I'd be rich enough to buy the rights to Supernatural! I think I may develop a complex. :) But fear not! I may be an evil bitch, but even _I_ have a heart – Sam and Dean aren't done fighting, yet. ;) Sidenote: I've noticed that the site is screwing up some of my formatting when I post, and some sentences appear to have lost their spaces. I'm trying to fix this, but I apologize in the meantime.

* * *

By the time Dean had composed himself enough to lift his head Sam had slipped back to sleep, his arm still draped over Dean's shoulders. His brother's lashes were dark against pale cheeks, and the sight of his peaceful face almost destroyed Dean's fragile control again.

Sam seemed incapable of staying awake for long these days, his surgery and painkillers making it almost impossible. His memory had been like a song on repeat when he could stay awake a full day. Now he was like a skipping record – fragments of awareness, repeating endlessly.

Dean released his death grip on his brother's gown, his fingers aching as they unclenched. He didn't understand – it should have worked. The poltergeist _had_ to be Daniel Hauser – there was no other explanation – and he had toasted the fucker's remains. There was no reason that the spirit should still be in Sam's brain.

He resisted the urge to punch something, instead digging the nails of his hands into his palms until they stung. He had put all his hope in this venture, and now he felt bereft, hopeless.

_Think, damn it. There has to be an explanation._

Hauser had been electrocuted, and the poltergeist seemed to be electrical in nature. Destroying the bones hadn't dispelled it – it must have found something else to anchor it to this world, something to draw its energy from.

His eyes shot to his brother's bandaged head, a sick feeling growing in his stomach.

_Sam…_

It was feeding off of Sam. It made sense – his brother's worsening symptoms, the spirit's ability to linger. Hauser was tapped into the electrical currents of Sam's brain like a supernatural parasite. Draining him. Killing him.

He had to get this thing out of his brother. And after burning the bones, there was only one way of doing it –

He needed to perform an exorcism.

But how the hell was he going to pull that off in a hospital? Exorcisms were notoriously loud, messy, and dangerous. Not the most subtle of techniques. Even though he was dealing with a spirit rather than a demon, it was bound to cause a ruckus. He'd never be able to finish the ritual before he was interrupted by alarmed hospital staff.

Sam wouldn't be able to leave the hospital anytime soon, with that shunt in his head, but Dean knew that if he let this continue much longer, his brother wouldn't survive. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the lingering sensation of tears. He'd have to do it in the hospital, somewhere other than Sam's room – somewhere isolated and soundproof.

He searched his memory for a viable place, mapping out the hospital in his mind. They were in C Wing, between B Wing, which was the psychiatric ward, and the beginning of the new D wing – the future home of Glenvale Hospital's MRI and imaging center. It was still under heavy construction, not yet in use.

It was their best option, empty and nearby. Getting Sammy there would be difficult – it would have to be done late tonight, when staffing was low. He would need to be prepared beforehand – supplies, a plan. There wasn't a lot of time, and as much as he wanted to stay and be here when Sam woke up again, he needed to get ready.

Still, he hesitated, staring at his brother's sleeping face. His eyes looked sunken and he was thin, his shoulder's bony against his pillow. Dean had the sudden fear that if he were to leave now, Sam would die. But if he didn't go, if he didn't make this happen _soon_,losing Samwas a certainty.

Snatching a piece of paper from the bedside table, he scrawled out a quick note.

_Sammy – _

_Don't worry, little brother. You're going to be fine. Hang on – I'll be there soon._

_Dean_

He folded the note in half and tucked it under Sam's limp hand, then forced himself to turn and walk away, praying that Sam would still be there when he returned.

* * *

It was eleven PM by the time Dean had gathered the proper supplies, researched the exorcism ,and returned to the hospital. It had been difficult, finding the proper ritual. The vast majority of exorcisms were aimed at demons, not spirits, but he had finally found an obscure rite in one of Sam's books. He had the spell written down and tucked in his backpack with some holy water, angelica root, bindings, and five consecrated white candles.

Itwasn'tdifficult to talk his way into Sam's room. Muriel, an older, easily charmed night nurse was working. Dean allowed his eyes to tear slightly as he told her that he just _had_ to see Sam, that he wouldn't be able to sleep until he did. She crumbled like shortbread, ushering him past the nurse's station with a motherly pat on the back. Dean felt like a total shithead for manipulating her, but could see no other choice. He comforted himself with the belief that Muriel would want to help, if she knew what was really going on.

Sam was asleep when Dean slipped into his room, the note clutched to his chest. He had obviously woken up at some point, and Dean couldn't help but wonder how he had reacted to finding himself alone. He would never really know.

Dropping the backpack on the foot of the bed, Dean retrieved the wheelchair folded in the back corner of the room and pushed it to Sam's side.

"Sam," he said softly, shaking his brother's shoulder gently. Sam moaned and his eyelids flickered.

"Come on, buddy. Open your eyes."

Sam blinked, his eyes unfocused and dazed. Dean saw him scan the room blearily, his confusion apparent, before his gaze locked on to Dean's face.

"Hey, Sleepyhead. Up and at 'em, okay?"

Sam stared at him blankly for a moment, and Dean had the sudden, horrifying suspicion that his brother didn't recognize him. Sam furrowed his brow in confusion and struggled to sit up.

"Dean?" he said thickly, and hot relief flowed through Dean as he helped his brother upright.

"Yeah, man. Don't worry – you're okay. But we have to get you to another wing so we can fix you up, okay?" He locked the wheels on the chair as he spoke, keeping a steadying hand on the younger Winchester's shoulder.

"Okay," Sam acquiesced weakly, swaying against his grip.

"Atta boy." he said encouragingly, swinging Sam's legs over the edge of the bed for him.

"'M not a dog," Sam said petulantly, his voice muffled in Dean's neck as he lifted him gently upward and over to the wheelchair.

Dean chuckled, absurdly happy to hear his brother being snippy. Despite an ever-increasing disorientation, Sam was still… Sam.

"No," he said fondly, as he settled Sam in the chair. "A dog actually does what it's told every once and a while."

Sam snorted, slumped in the seat.

Dean grabbed the backpack and parked the chair by the door, then crouched down to eye level in front of his brother.

"Okay, sit tight, Dude. I've gotta do something real quick, and then I'll be back. Can you stay here for me?"

Sam nodded, his head moving stiffly. Dean smiled reassuringly at him before ducking out into the hall and towards room 345. The lights were out, but Dean could see its occupant in the illumination from the hallway. A middle-aged woman was lying in the bed, staring blankly at a corner of the ceiling. Her wrists were attached to the bedrails with soft restraints, and she moved restlessly.

Scanning the hallway quickly and seeing no one, he slipped into the room and moved silently to the bed.

"Hey, Angela." He whispered, glancing at the name on her chart. "Let's get you out of these things, huh?" He undid the restraints gently and lowered the bedrail. Angela didn't speak, but her eyes rolled to his face and a bubble of spit formed on her lips. Dean felt a spasm of guilt and pity as he guided her to her feet and out into the hallway.

"Take a stroll, sweetheart." He muttered, pointing her towards B Wing and giving her an encouraging but gentle push forward. She shuffled ahead awkwardly, still silent. Apologizing wrodlessly, he turned and walked around the corner and down the hall to the nurse's station.

Muriel looked up as he approached, smiling benignly.

"Hey, thanks, Muriel." He said sincerely. "You're a real sweetheart."

She blushed and shooed him with her hand, looking pleased.

"You get some sleep, dear."

"I will," he saidwarmly,waving and starting to walk away. He paused, trying to look as though he'd just remembered something.

"Oh, Muriel, I saw one of the other patients walking down the East hallway – seemed pretty… out of it. Middle aged woman, brown hair, big scar over her right eye? "

"Oh, that's Angela! She must have gotten out of her restraints." Muriel gasped, standing swiftly and moving around the counter. "Thank you, hon. I've got to go fetch her. You have a good night, now."

"Sure thing," Dean said, hating himself as he watched her trot around the corner. As soon as she was out of sight he turned and sprinted in the opposite direction, back to Sam's room.

Sam was nodding sleepily in the chair when he got there, but he jerked to alertness again as Dean pushed him swiftly into the hall and towards D Wing.

"Whe're we goin'?" he slurred.

"Somewhere quiet, bro. Get you fixed up."

Dean scanned the hallways as he pushed the chair rapidly towards their destination, grateful that it remained empty.

Soon the wide double doors of D Wing loomed up before them. They were locked, bold red signs proclaiming the area _authorized personnel only._Prepared for this, Dean pulled a metal file from the backpack and made quick work of popping the lock. Having been intended only to keep wandering civilians out, it was useless against a professional.

Sighing in relief, Dean pulled his brother through the doors and relocked them. This hallway was dim, lit only by humming backup lights. Empty, black doorways lined the sides. Bypassing them, he pushed Sam down and around a corner, further into the construction zone.

"Dean?" Sam said in a small voice, and Dean realized that his brother was scared.

"It's alright, Sammy." He reassured. "I know this is strange, but I don't have time to explain the details. You were hurt, and now we have to take care of a little problem in our area of expertise, understand? But we're going to fix it, and you're going to be okay, so just hang on, alright?"

Sam' head tilted back and to the side, so that his upraised eyes met Dean's. There was confusion there, and fear, but trust as well, and he dropped his chin again, nodding. Dean released a handle for a moment to squeeze his shoulder, then spied a likely looking room to his right. He halted, moving away from the chair for a moment to investigate.

There were no windows, and the walls and door looked thick There was an exam table bolted to the middle of the floor.

Perfect.

He ducked out into the hallway and retrieved his brother, then closed and locked the door after them. He wondered vaguely if Muriel had discovered that Sam was gone yet, but didn't have the time to consider it for long.

He pushed Sam to the exam table and locked the brakes on the chair.

"Okay," he said, suddenly nervous. "I'm gonna help you up on the table. I need you to lay on your stomach, alright?"

The ritual called for the possessed individual to be tied to a raised surface, arms over their head. Dean supposed that this was usually done with the person on their back, but Sam couldn't be expected to do that, not with the shunt still in place.

Samwas lookingat him in bewilderment, but pushed up on the arms of the chair without questioning him. Dean swiftly hooked his hands under Sam's arms and guided him up onto the table. His brother flung out an arm and sank awkwardly to his side on the hard surface, out of breath from the effort. He panted for a moment, then rolled weakly onto his stomach.

"Sam?" Dean asked hesitantly, pulling his supplies from the bag. "You trust me, know I'd never hurt you, right?"

"Yeah," Sam sighed immediately, his eyes beginning to close.

"Okay. Good." Dean said, then pulled Sam's unresisting arms gently over his head and bound them to the table. Sam pulled weakly against the restraints, his eyes opening again and searching for Dean's face.

"What're you doing?" he asked, sounding very young.

Dean leaned down and stared intently into Sam's eyes, trying to project all the confidence and love he could muster.

"I'm saving you, Sammy."

* * *

A/N: And you all called me evil… :) Oh, Ye of little faith… 


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Here you go, folks - the final showdown. (but not the last chapter, obviously. :)

* * *

Sam was scared.

Run-and-hide, curl-up-in-a-ball-and-cry scared.

Unfortunately for him, his brother had just finished tying his wrists and ankles, making that impossible.

His mind raced with half-formed, panicky thoughts, but inevitably returned to the same burning question –

_Why is Dean doing this to me?_

He trusted Dean, implicitly, wholly - but none of this was making any sense. Without the benefit of understanding, he had to fight to keep from spiraling into terror.

Dean was somewhere behind him, and Sam could hear the sound of matches being lit, could smell wax burning. His breath hitched in fear, sounding loud against the bare surface of the table under his cheek. He pulled at his bindings, twisting his hands weakly in an attempt to loosen them. Dean was an expert with knots, however, and they remained secure.

"Sammy," Dean said softly, and Sam opened his eyes to see his brother staring at him in concern and grim apology. He held a bundle of dried herbs in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other.

"Untie me? Please? I- I'll do what you ask me to, you don't have to tie me. Please." He begged, loathing the weakness in his voice.

Dean looked forlorn but resolute as he stepped forward and leaned down.

"I wish I could, kiddo, but it's not _your_ cooperation I'm worried about."

Sam whimpered in frustration, yanking sharply against the ties on his wrists.

"It'll be over soon, I promise, Sam." Dean said thickly, and Sam closed his eyes against the pain in his brother's gaze.

Then there was the scent of burning herbs, and Dean began to read.

* * *

Dean hated the fear in Sam's voice, the panic in his eyes. Everything in him rebelled against this and when Sam whimpered, Dean nearly broke He wanted to untie his brother more than he wanted to breathe - but it had to be this way if Sam were to survive.

"It'll be over soon, I promise, Sam." He said through a tightening throat. Sam's eyes closed. Dean steeled himself against his guilt and started the rite.

He had placed the five lit consecrated candles on the floor, below Sam's hands, feet, and head. He'd poured the holy water into a basin, which now sat at his feet.

Bending, he lit the bundle of Angelica root in his right hand and began to read from the paper.

"_Ego beatus is factum per divinus causa,_"

He waved the burning herbs over Sam's head three times, then swiftly dunked them in the bowl of holy water. They extinguished with a hiss, a small puff of steam rising.

Sam's fingers twitched, tapping lightly off the table, and his eyes snapped opened.

"_Extrarius phasmatis – absum, absum, absum_."

He shook the singed Angelica as he spoke, spattering ashy holy water over Sam's back.

Sam gasped, his body going rigid and his eyes rolling upward. The hospital gown was open in the back, revealing bare skin from the bandages at his skull to the waistband of his drawstring pants. Droplets trailed down the contour of his back, collecting in the gentle curve at the base of his spine.

"_In nomen of vetus filiolus_,"

Dean dunked the Angelica again, flinging more holy water over his brother. Sam jolted against the bindings and moaned loudly. Only the whites of his eyes showed and he panted, turning his face towards the surface of the table. The air in the room felt increasingly charged, and Dean felt a growing urgency. He read faster, his voice rising to be heard over Sam's escalating cries.

"_Vos es iacio sicco vos es profugus, absum nunquam ut reverto!_"

Sam was screaming now, agony in his voice, and Dean knew that Hauser was fighting to remain within him. Digging in and holding on.

He brought the Angelica down sharply against Sam's back, forcing himself to ignore Sam's sobbing screams as he brought the herbs down on his skin over and over again.

"_Solvo is animus quod exsisto privates!"_

Sam choked on his own cry, his body trembling wildly. He went totally rigid, his head coming up off the table as his back arched severely.

"_Solvo is animus quod exsisto privates!_" Dean repeated, shouting even though Sam had been reduced to only wheezing.

Blood began to trickle from Sam's nose, landing in perfect, round dots on the sterile tabletop. He gave a great, heaving gasp, and a blue web of electricity crackled over his skull, singing the bandages.

Deanraised an arm to cover his eyes as the spirit exploded into the air in a shower of sparks, hissing and wailing. He lunged forward, covering Sam's vulnerable body with his own and shielding him.

An enraged, mournful cry filled the room, fading even as Daniel Hauser screamed out his denial. The electricity in the air seemed to lessen, and a moment later, a calm filled the room.

Dean pulled back from his brother cautiously, scanning the air for any sign of the spirit. Thenhe turned back to Sam, who was utterly still and silent.

"Sammy,"

He put a hand on Sam's warm back, feeling its stillness, and realized that his brother wasn't breathing.

"Oh, sit, Sam, don't…" he begged, as panic filled him and he fumbled to untie his brother's ankles.

"Come on, come _on!_"

His desperate hands slipped as he yanked the knots out, and he cursed himself angrily.

Just as he had freed both of his brother's feet, Sam jerked weakly and gasped, gulping desperately at the air. Dean nearly sobbed with relief, moving swiftly to Sam's hands and pulling at the bindings.

"Hang on, kiddo, hang on," he chanted, fingers shaking as the adrenaline ebbed from his body. Sam moaned pitifully, his voice full of fear and shock. He tugged frantically at the ties, tightening the knots even as Dean worked to undo them.

Cursing, Dean pulled his knife from his boot and sawed quickly through the fabric. Sam's arms snapped free, and he wrenched them down to his chest as he turned on his side and drew up his knees.

Dean moved around the table until he was in front of his brother, muttering automatic reassurances as he drew Sam gently into his arms.

Sam sobbed wretchedly, his body quaking with terror, his breath hot against Dean's chest. His arms snaked around Dean's waist, tightening painfully as he gasped and cried.

Dean grimaced, but didn't try to loosen his brother's hold. Sam could break his spine and he wouldn't complain.

Because his brother was _alive_. And nothing else mattered.

* * *

Overwhelming horror and denial filled Sam, and he was only distantly aware of his brother holding him and speaking. His body shook with the aftershocks of severe pain and his muscles felt bruised and sore.

There had been something _in_ him, in his _mind_. He hadn't even known it was there until it had started to fight. He'd felt it grasping desperately at him, his nerve-endings shrieking at every point of contact. His consciousness had felt like a minefield of pain, and this _presence_ was galloping through it, setting off explosions of agony with ever step.

For a moment he had forgotten who he was, forgotten everything except suffering. And that was the most frightening thing of all – that abandonment of reason and self. Sam had never experienced anything like it, and the gratitude he felt when awareness returned to him was so overwhelming it nearly broke him.

Dean was running a soothing hand up and down his bare spine, palm bumping gently over his vertebrae. Sam took a shuddering breath and slumped in exhaustion, his shoulders hunching into his brother's ribs. An alarming weakness filled him, and his eyes started to close of their own accord.

He faintly heard Dean calling out his name -then blackness overtook him, and he knew no more.

* * *

"Sam?"

Dean caught his brother as he slumped forward in unconsciousness, worry flaring in him. But Sam was still breathing, still warm, and Dean knew it was likely that he'd just passed out from an adrenaline crash. Unsure what else to do, Dean gently lifted his brother in a fireman's hold, dismayed at how light Sam had gotten. Abandoning the remains of the rite, as well as the wheelchair, he carried his brother back to B Wing.

Trying to hurry without jostling Sam too badly, he made his way to the nursing station, calling for help as he approached. Muriel's kindly face appeared above the counter, going white with shock as she took in the pair before her.

"Oh, my Lord! What's happened?"

She raced around the counter, pulling off her stethoscope and gesturing Dean towards an empty gurney against the wall. He laid Sam down as gently as possible and stepped back to allow Muriel access to his brother.

"I found him out of bed," Dean lied weakly, watching her pry up Sam's eyelids. "He was like this when I found him."

"I thought you'd gone home," she said, and there was a slightly accusing tone to her voice.

"I was on my way out, but I forgot something so I went back."

He knew how weak that sounded, and when she looked up at him intensely, he knew she didn't believe him. He put as much sincerity in his eyes as he could, and she sighed and looked away.

"I didn't hurt him, Muriel. I would never hurt him. He's my brother."

She stared at him evenly for a moment, then nodded.

"Was he conscious when you found him?" she asked, and Dean slumped in relief.

"Yeah," he exhaled, running a shaky hand through his hair. "Is- is he gonna be okay?"

"I think so," Muriel said, her voice softening. 'Believe it or not, I think he's simply in a very deep sleep."

Dean sighed and rested a hand on Sam's shin.

"I need you to help me get him back into his bed," Muriel instructed, popping to wheel locks on the gurney and pushing it toward Sam's room. Dean nodded dumbly, grabbing a rail and helping her move the gurney down the hall.

Together, they maneuvered it inside and managed to slide Sam onto the bed without waking him. Muriel was quiet as she re-attached his monitor leads, glancing up at Dean as she switched the machines back on. Dean watched as she gently cleaned the blood from Sam's face and replaced the singed bandages, her face tense and confused as she fingered the lightly balckened gauze.

"Visiting hours are over, Mr. Winchester," she said, not looking at him. Her voice impersonal and gaurded.

Dean picked up one of Sam's limp hands, staring at his face.

"I can't leave him right now, Muriel. I… Please-" His voice cracked, and he turned pleading eyes toward her. "_Please._"

Her face softened a little, and she looked away, tucking the sheet over Sam's shoulder.

"I have paperwork to do," she said neutrally, but as she walked by she pushed the visitor's chair closer to him. Dean thanked her silently, waiting until she had left the room before settling in the chair to wait.

He would be there when Sam woke up; waiting to know if the pain had been worth it, if Sam was whole again.

* * *

A/N: Yes, yes, I know. I'm EVIL. Spawn of the devil, evil hell-bitch, blah blah blah. :) But don't worry, another chapter soon. :) 


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I had a request for a translation of the Latin phrases Dean uses in the last chapter - The basic translation is as follows: "_I bless this rite with divine intent. May this foreign spirit be gone, be gone, be gone in the name of the old gods. You are cast out. You are banished. Depart, never to return. Release this soul, and be released"_ Hey, it sounded less cheesy in Latin…. :)

* * *

A low moan pulled Dean from a deep sleep, and he stirred sluggishly. It took him a moment to realize where he was, slumped facedown on the edge of Sam's mattress. He sat up stiffly, his back protesting as he straightened. Sam was trying to blink open his eyes, fingers moving restlessly against the mattress as he moaned again.

"Sammy?" Dean said softly, laying a hand on his brother's wrist. Sam made a less-than coherent sound, managing to open his eyes in narrow slits. His gaze slid wearily to Dean's face, his expression blank.

"Hey, Sam." Dean said warmly, smiling at his little brother. "Welcome back to the land of the conscious."

Sam just stared at him, silent, but Dean thought he could see a hint of brotherly annoyance in his expression.

"How do you feel?"

Sam cleared his throat roughly and finally spoke.

"Like shit…" he said, his voice soft but wry.

"Well, hate to break it to ya, little brother, but that's pretty much how you look, too."

Sam made a face and raised the middle finger of his right hand at Dean, who chuckled and leaned back. There was another moment of silence, and then Dean couldn't take it anymore.

"Do you remember what happened last night?" he asked, trying not to sound too desperate. Sam's brow furrowed and he looked slightly confused for a moment. Then, as Dean's heart was beginning to sink, Sam looked questioningly at him.

"Did you perform an… exorcism on me?" he asked, looking unsettled.

Relief and gratitude filled Dean so quickly he felt lightheaded. He slumped forward, grasping the edge of the mattress with both hands to stay upright.

"Dean?"

Sam's concerned voice filtered through the grayness that had begun to encroach on his vision. He blinked rapidly, the vertigo receding, and straightened again.

"Yeah," he said breathily. "I'm good."

But his heart pounded fiercely, and his hands shook.

"Dean, what happened? What was… in me?" Sam blurted, his eyes wide.

Dean took a deep breath, unsure how to explain.

"Do you remember that house in Charleston? Big, old, mansion and a poltergeist?"

Sam appeared the think for a moment, then nodded.

"The poltergeist pushed you through the banister on the second story landing. It knocked me out, and when I woke up you were… in bad shape. The doctors said you had brain damage."

Sam's face blanched and he looked vaguely nauseous. One hand lifted to touch the edges of his bandages.

"You had a rare form of amnesia that hindered your ability to form new memories."

"Wait- brain damage? …Amnesia? Dean-" a hysterical sounding laugh bubbled from Sam's chest.

"It wasn't actually brain damage, Sam. The poltergeist was the spirit of a man named Daniel Hauser – he was a worker who was electrocuted in the house in the 70's – that's why the spirit looked all… sparky. It took refuge in your brain while I was unconscious, and it fucked with your temporal lobe. That's why I had to perform the exorcism, to get it out and make you better."

Sam looked overwhelmed, his eyes darting back and forth as he searched his mind for any memory of the things his big brother described.

"How- how long?" he asked softly.

"Sam…"

Dean didn't want to tell him it had been three months – the poor kid was on the verge of losing it as it was.

"Dean, _please_. I need to know, how long has it been?"

"A little over three months," Dean replied, looking away.

"Three months?"

Sam's voice cracked and his eyes widened. Dean heard his breath quicken and rushed to reassure him.

"I was here, every day. I didn't let anything bad happen to you."

Sam blinked at him, shocked.

"You're going to be okay now, Sam. The spirit is gone, and you can remember last night, so your memory is fixed."

Sam's head flopped back onto his pillow and he took a shuddering breath.

"Okay," he said softly. "Okay…"

He was trying to convince himself, trying to hold it together, and Dean felt a mingled surge of pride and sympathy for his little brother.

"Sammy, you're going to be ok." He promised in his best brother-knows-best voice.

Sam nodded weakly, his eyes drifting shut again.

"I'm going to go get the doctor, let him know you can remember last night. Just… tell him you remember me visiting you in your room, okay? If you start talkin' about exorcisms and spirits, he'll just transfer you to psych."

Sam opened his eyes as Dean stood, looking at him intently.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

"You're- you're okay, too, right?"

Dean paused, squeezing Sam's shin through the blankets.

"I am now, Sammy."

* * *

A/N: Short chapter, but more tomorrow. :) 


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: This is another short chapter – sorry, but I had a CPR refresher course this morning for work, followed by WORK, and then night school until 9pm. Stick a fork in me, I'm done! But I tried to inject a little levity into this chapter, to ease some of the angst I've been tossing your way lately. So enjoy. :)

* * *

Doctor Mitchell looked as if someone had just told him Santa clause was real and the moon really _was_ made of cheese. Sam had a sneaking suspicion that gthe ood doctor had just experienced a significant shift in his world view.

"Incredible-" he blurted, "Simply… incredible. Mr. Winchester, do you have any idea what a miraculous turnaround this is for you? I've never heard of someone recovering to this degree after _brain damage_."

"Good genes." Dean said proudly, rocking back on his heels and jutting his chest out a little. "Superior, even."

"Don't mind my brother, Doctor Mitchell. I think he's got a touch of the ol' brain damage, himself." Sam said dryly, shooting Dean a look before turning back to the doctor. He could see his brother out of the corner of his eye, making an overly-dramatic face of shock and indignation.

"So what about this thing in my head? I hate to sound rude, but could you please get it the hell out of my _skull_? Soon?"

Doctor Mitchell glanced down at Sam's chart, flipping to look at an underlying page.

"Your test results are continuing to improve, your intracranial pressure has stabilized at a normal level, and with this recent reversal of symptoms, I think it's safe to take out the shunt."

Sam huffed in relief, sinking back down into the mattress. He hadn't even realized how tense he'd become until he relaxed.

"Try to shave as much of his head as possible, will ya Doc?" Dean said jovially.

"Actually, we shouldn't need to shave any more of your brother's head."

"Wait," Sam interjected, "My head's been _shaved_?"

"You heard that crack he made, about me being brain damaged and all." Dean argued, ignoring Sam. "Don't you think you could at least _consider_ it?"

"Asshole!" Sam protested from the bed, patting at his bandaged head as though he would be able to feel the missing hair.

Doctor Mitchell looked a slightly taken aback at the sudden eruption of brotherly sparring, and he smiled nervously before replacing Sam's chart and moving towards the door. A nurse entered with a quick apology, a lunch tray in hand.

"I'll arrange a time to remove the shunt, Sam, and let you know as soon as we have the details."

"Thanks, Doctor Mitchell." Sam said distractedly, trying to keep the pudding on his lunch tray from Dean's suddenly eager hands. The doctor and nurse both left, exchanging amused looks.

"Jesus, Dean, back off! I'm recovering from brain damage – I need it more than you do."

"Are you kidding?" Dean said in mock resentment. "You've lounged around in a bed for the last three months. Meanwhile, I've been working shit jobs and looking after your skinny ass. Plus, it wasn't really brain damage. It was brain _interference_."

He reached across Sam's chest, fingers wiggling for the pudding cup.

Realizing that Dean could easily overpower him physically, Sam resorted to underhanded tactics. Thinking quickly, he pulled the pudding close to his face and spit into it.

"There," he said smugly. "Still want it, jerk?"

Dean stared at the pudding cup for a moment.

"Yes."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Sam laughed. "That's just… sick, man. And you still can't have it."

"Why not? You're not going to eat it now. I mean, you once threw out an entire porterhouse steak because you sneezed near it. Dude - come one. I know you too well."

Sam glanced down at the pudding with a grimace.

"Shit."

Dean held out an expectant hand, twitching his fingers in a _gi'mee_ gesture. He smirked triumphantly, as though he'd just won a great battle of wits, and Sam couldn't help but smile a little as he handed over the pudding. Dean had been ridiculously upbeat all day, and Sam had been strangely reminded of the few times in high school they'd gotten stoned.

Despite the amusing memories it evoked, Sam felt a pang of sadness as well. Dean's behavior was an indicator of how bad things had been for his older brother - an upswing this drastic _had_ to come from a _serious_ fucking low.

Not to mention, it was incredibly alarming -to know that he had been awake and aware for the duration, but would never be able to remember. His ability to form new memories had been mercifully restored, but three months of his life were still gone forever.

It was going to take a long time to get used to the gaping hole in his memory, the feeling of having his life's timeline fragmented. He wasn't sure he'd _ever_ get used to it. It was like a sore tooth that he couldn't stop poking at – his mind returning to it over and over again, prodding, searching for some remainder of that lost time.

But there was, and always would be, nothing.

The only thing that allowed him to keep it together was the knowledge that Dean had been there, every day, looking out for him. Whatever else had happened in those months, his brother had been with him – and that erased a good deal of the fear and uncertainty.

"Man, I can't wait to spring you from this place," Dean said, interrupting Sam's thoughts as he tossed the empty pudding cup into the trash.

"I am _so_ sick of crappy hospital food…"

"Thanks for the overwhelming concern, Dean."

"I mean, you'd think people in hospitals would be miserable enough without having this shit crammed down their throats."

'Dean, the only one cramming anything down _your_ throat is you. So stop your bitchin' and get me something to read, will ya? I'm so bored I might slip into a coma just to pass the time."

"Funny, Sam. Real funny." Dean griped sarcastically, but he stood to get the magazines anyway. "When'd you become such a friggin' comedian, anyway?"

"I learned it from watching you," Sam said in his best after-school-special voice, batting his eyes dramatically as he spoke.

Dean flipped him off as he left the room, and Sam grinned.

God, but he loved getting in the last word.

* * *

Thanks for all the nice reviews! You guys kick so much ass, you should all be made official Winchesters! 


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Here it is, the final chapter of Oubliette. Thanks to everyone for the kind reviews, and stay tuned - I've already got another SN story in the works. :)

* * *

"Watch your head," Dean cautioned, helping his brother through the front door of his apartment.

Sam had just been released from the hospital, a week after having the shunt removed. He'd healed fine, with no complications, and Doctor Mitchell had determined that he was fit to be discharged.

Dean could tell, however, that Sam was still very weak. He could feel his brother shaking a little under his hand as he guided him to the old couch. The trip across town had been very tiring for Sam, his body unused to so much activity.

"Why don't you lie down for a while, and I'll fix us some dinner."

"Okay, okay, I'll lie down – you don't have to threaten me with your cooking."

Sam's voice was sarcastic, but Dean could see the relief in his eyes as he lay back against the cushions.

"Just for that, no dessert." He said in mock hurt, moving away to begin cooking. There wasn't much in the cupboards, but he did find some pasta and an unopened bottle of sauce – something he was fairly certain even _he_ couldn't screw up. He set the water to boil and the sauce to heat, then grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge for himself and a water for Sam.

When he turned back to the couch, however, Sam was asleep, slumped awkwardly to the side, long legs splayed out in front of him.

Dean took a moment to smirk at his brother's ridiculous position before setting aside the drinks. He untied Sam's shoes, sliding them off gently, then stood and eased his brother's torso down until he was lying flat. Grabbing the army blanket off the back of the couch, he tucked Sam's legs up on the cushions and covered him.

Back in the kitchen the water was boiling, so he tossed in the pasta and cooked it until it was al dente. Fixing himself a bowl of spaghetti and sauce, he returned to the living area and sat against the wall to eat.

Forking the pasta into his mouth, he watched Sam sleep. It was good to see his brother without bandages on his head; even better to see him outside a hospital. It had been a close call – closer than he wanted to admit. Dean never wanted to feel that kind of all-encompassing helplessness again.

As it was, he still felt a lingering echo of fear that Sam would wake up and not remember. Or that he would suddenly be unable to speak, have a seizure, a stroke, slip into a coma. His brother had never seemed as fragile as he did now – not even as a child – and it sent Dean's big brother instincts into a frenzy.

Sam sighed contentedly in his sleep and shifted, throwing one long arm over his head. Dean smiled and let himself relax somewhat.

Sam was here. He was going to be okay.

Dean could wait. He'd been doing a lot of that, lately.

* * *

Sam woke feeling more rested than he had in a long time, stretching languidly before sitting up. The room was dimly lit, and he could see darkness outside the window. Looking around for the first time, he took in his surroundings.

The apartment was small and poorly designed, but remarkably clean. There were virtually no personal touches, but Sam could see signs of his brother everywhere – the gun cleaning kit on the table, his boots by the door, a shirt tossed over the back of a kitchen chair.

Dean himself was standing at the stove, heating up what smelled like pasta.

"'Bout time you woke up," Dean said without turning around. "I'm re-heating your dinner, so if it's shitty, don't blame me. You're the one who fell asleep when it was hot and fresh."

Sam's stomach rumbled.

"At this point, I'd eat it cold." He said, standing unsteadily and making his way to the table. Dean scoffed.

"Wait a few minutes and you won't have to."

Dean continued to stir the pan of noodles, and Sam settled back in his chair, yawning. There was a stack of magazines on the table, and he absently picked one up. He was expecting Maxim or Penthouse, and was surprised to see it was the American Journal of Neurosurgery. He blinked at it in mild shock, glancing between the obtuse publication and his brother.

Again, the magnitude of what his brother had done for him resonated. Sam knew that despite all the shit they'd been put through in their lives, he was incredibly blessed to have a brother as loyal and determined as Dean.

"Ready or not, here it comes!" the brother in question called, bringing a huge plate of spaghetti to the table with a flourish. Dean's gaze caught the journal in Sam's hand, and his expression faltered a little. Sam recognized his brother's "embarrassed and uncomfortable" expression and decided to let him off the hook.

"What, no Penthouse or muscle car mags?" he asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Penthouse, maybe." Dean said, his face relaxing into a familiar smirk. "But car magazines? No way. Why would I waste time looking at inferior automobiles when I have perfection just outside? Plus, that would be like cheating on her."

"You're sick, you know that, right? I mean, not only do you eat pudding with spit in it, but you equate your car to a girlfriend. It's not right, man."

"No," Dean insisted, hands on his hips, "What's not right is this whole emactiated beanpole look you've got going on. We've got to put some meat back on those freaky bones, Calista."

Sam shot him a look, but was prevented from making a snide comment by the wad of food in his mouth. He didn't speak for another ten minutes, eating as though he were starving. Finally, the bowl was empty and he felt ready to burst.

"When are we leaving?" he asked abruptly, and Dean looked at him in confusion.

"Whadda ya mean?"

"Well, you've been stuck here for more than three months already, and I know how you hate to stay in one place. I just assumed you'd want to move on as quickly as possible."

Dean looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, tilting back in his chair.

"Neither one of us is in any shape to hunt right now, Sam. You still have a lot of healing to do. We're gonna have to brush up on our training, too, or we'll get our asses kicked first time out. Here's as good a place as any to do it. We already have a place to stay, and it's paid up through the next two months."

Sam smiled, relaxed and content. Two months of realtive downtime was unheard of in the Winchester lifestyle, and he recognized it for the gift it was.

"Don't get me wrong," Dean insisted, "This place blows, hardcore, and I don't want to stay here too long. But… we have time."

He looked across the table at Sam, his expression saying all the things he couldn't.

"Yeah," Sam agreed happily, "We do."

* * *

A/N: Well, folks, that's a wrap on Oubliette. Thanks for reading, and a special thanks to everyone who reviewed. I wish I had time to respond individually, but between work and my next fic, I'm all out of time! 


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